


Paint me by Number.

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is in a band and he kind of saves Harry's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint me by Number.

He wants to say a lot of things, fuck this fuck that fuck you. Instead he settles for putting another bullet through the can, and another until he’s out of shells. The tension is still in his shoulders, pulled like a rubber band ready to snap. So, he decides to bottom out the liquor cabinet and say “fuck life.” He wakes up head to cold tile and mouth a desert. The rubber band pulls, ready to break. He wants to say why me, why now fucking why. Instead he dutifully picks himself from the floor and goes to work, head pounding, throat aching.

                At work he sits until he can’t anymore, can’t stand to do nothing at all. The band pulls with each paper he files and smile he fakes. He walks home in the rain, passes a gang of teens loitering an alleyway. He feels fifteen again—mouth full of blood and ripped skin for knuckles, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding until it’s all but white. He gets home waterlogged. Without a thought he grabs the only pencil he really has and the white wall becomes a dingy street. The band tares, a slit in the rubber, ready to snap like metal rounded fists. He does a line and fights the thoughts when he starts to come down.

                The next week is almost the same; every week is almost the same. The cashiers are different but their smiles and the cheap liquor isn’t. The drawings get harsher when the rubber pulls tighter and—there is a shot from somewhere, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding until the boy isn’t breathing. He can’t touch his gun anymore. His neglected work plies up until the straight edged boss tells him in her Firm-with-Compassion tone that he needs to sort himself out. He gets the Christmas bonus as a goodbye gift and spends it on expensive whiskey high grade paint. The bathroom becomes a rusted park, swings still even though the wind was blowing that day.  

                He runs out of coke and needs a job, rent looming and rubber band pulling. A second hand bookstore has flexible hours, sparse customers. The pay is shit but it’ll get him what he needs. He starts Monday, goes through withdrawals until Friday; ice baths and shaking knees, burning fields and rotting trees. He stacks books with unsteady fingers and counts stock with a swaying vision; the manger doesn’t say a word, just gives him worry filled looks over her computer screen. He thanks whatever is out there she doesn’t ask questions.

                A group of teens, maybe young adults, enter the shop, shoving each other into the dusty bookshelves. “Go die, asshole,” and other insults tossed around. He feels sixteen again— _go die or don’t let me know you’re alive_ , running around stealing food and buying risky drugs. They buy for of the same book, “for school sucks yeah?” and leave him a yellow flier with their names. He doesn’t read it until there are three empty bottles on the floor, but it’s not worth it anyway. They’re a band, low key and probably indie. He still feels sixteen—curled up in the back of a nice car with a nice heater, soft voices singing about suicide and homicide.       

                He finds their CD in a hidden store that sells things from coffee to self-help books. He doesn’t look at those, the alcohol helps him enough. Their CD is indie, the soft kind that melts across his skin and makes him think of gentle rain and lake dipped sunsets. The rubber in his chest loosens, leading singer echoing about lost love and false façades. It also mentions alcohol, which he needs more of.

                They come back later, after the date printed on the flier; the day spent drawing what the concert might have looked like on his bedroom wall. They ask why he wasn’t there—he doesn’t have an age for that, no, nobody cared. He wants to say you’re good you could go places why aren’t you famous. Instead he taps his fingers and says he bought the album. One of them, bright smile and lavender eyes, “Dude! Wicked, I thought you seemed like an ambience man.” They’re off before he can find his voice to wonder what exactly ambience is, white paper pinned with black ink all in a row. Google tells him ambience is a music genre.

                He learns their names, actually reads the inside album cover—he feels thirteen and pining over giggly girls in low cut shirts—but he doesn’t really care. Lavender eyes turns out to be named Zayn. The others, Louis, Niall, Liam, aren’t any more forgettable than Zayn himself. His concert drawing gets more detail, no color, but he still adds the birthmark on Liam’s neck and the freckles on Niall’s nose. He doesn’t color anything, because really nobody has purple eyes and he won’t paint anything fake. It almost goes unnoticed that he doesn’t buy coke anymore. Almost, until he realizes he isn’t pushing back all the thoughts that accompany falling of a high.

                He goes through withdrawals again, heaving stomach acid because he doesn’t eat and shaking so hard he can’t even sleep. Their album still plays on repeat around his apartment on loop about being alone. He feels 14—starting something new and becoming someone else. The rubber band feels frozen with all the ice baths, like it’ll crumble away instead of snapping in rage. Zayn visits the shop alone, “shows’ tomorrow you know. I hope you come this time.” He also buys a paperback on government oppression and smiles. He wants to ask if his eyes are really purple and why he even bothers. Instead he lets Zayn leave and considers going.

                Zayn walks on stage with an air of confidence he deserves and gives the crowd a large toothy grin. He asks them how they’ve been, if they’re having fun, if they’re ready to hear him play. All the answers are loud nonsensical shouting, the crowd bouncing for more music and desperate to dance. The music starts and he sings along. At the last song Zayn waves to some backstage worker and the lights go red. It makes things a bit hazy, a bit more intimate. They wait until the audience has soaked up the change before starting into a slower song the crowd sways too. He knows the track and mouths the words. That night he paints everything but Zayn’s eyes, all bathed in a sensual red glow.

                They find their way back to the shop, all bright smiles and wet hoodies. Zayn, his eyes still lavender, asks his name and thanks him for coming. He finds the voice to say Harry Styles and Niall cuts in with mischievous eyes and a sly grin, “well good thing we don’t have to call you curly when we talk about you anymore!” Zayn whips his head around, pushing Niall into a spinning display. Niall catches it, putting it upright before they file out, off to find Zayn after his angry march. He doesn’t feel any age, he just feels off.

                He draws a star on his ceiling, just empty with a thick black rim. He stares at it when his hands start to quake and when he vomits the dinner he had to force down. It reminds him of Zayn, and how one day he won’t be in his life. He’ll be making millions on songs about sex and hoes. He gets the tattoo because fuck food it never stays with him anyway.  

                In one month he manages three shows and only minor relapse. He still feels off—like when Zayn calls him Haz or when he wakes up not wanting to be alone. He manages to get a raise somehow, his boss shooting appraising glances at Zayn and him in-between breaks. It starts to snow outside, Zayn bringing him coffee to make up for the shop’s broken heater and talks about his life at collage. The others come too, piling between Horror and Suspense while he stocks books to tell him about their album.  Zayn smiles at him and says he’ll get one free of charge for Christmas and he feels 15—getting gifts from his sister through the mail as an apology.

                Christmas time rolls around, fake Santas’ at every corner ringing red bells he decides to paint in his kitchen, dropping twenty in one of their buckets as a thank-you. He doesn’t miss the burn of alcohol or the rush of coke, but when that ends he starts to miss human skin.

                Zayn somehow knows he’s working Christmas day, pulling him into a one armed hug and shoving a CD into his hands. The cover is a star, empty with a thick black rim. He wants to ask why, say what I don’t understand. Instead he pulls Zayn across the counter, clumsily bringing their lips together and asking if his eyes are really purple.

                They aren’t. Zayn’s eyes are a deep brown, and as every bit unbelievable as his contacts. He finishes the concert painting and lets Zayn paint a bookshelf in his foyer. He feels 22 and falling in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm seeing a pattern with these titles... and I just realized Harry's name is only used once in this while fic and I'm sorry for the excessive use of "he" but I'm super lazy and don't feeling like changing it. Also thanks for reading!  
> (if you're wondering Zayn's band is molded after JMSN and the songs mentioned are "Alone" "Hotel" and "Jameson")


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